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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29637762">On Brownies, Love, and Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky'>MovesLikeBucky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crowley's fuck shit up jacket, Established Relationship, M/M, The inherent emotion in a packed lunch, gluing coins to sidewalks is proper demonic activity, no matter what anyone else might think</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:54:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29637762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Can you measure love in brownies? Can you weigh the sugar and cocoa, measure the vanilla, and find how much one heart means to another there? Can you seal a kiss with walnuts? Or with extra fudge? <i>What’s your favorite part? The edge pieces? That’s mine, too!</i> Can you measure a home in baked goods, in flour-coated counters, in lunchboxes and zip-top bags?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>145</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On Brownies, Love, and Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was my SFW contribution to the Unleash The Chaos zine!  It was a great time and we had so many wonderful contributors, I was honored to be able to take part.</p>
<p>This was published in the zine with art by <a href="https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet">nothistoryyet</a>.  You can find the beautiful art here on <a href="https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet/status/1363953511382327297?s=20">Twitter</a> or here on <a href="https://sungmee.tumblr.com/post/643853646177697792/for-the-unleashthechaoszine-a-collab-with">Tumblr</a> &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Can you measure love in brownies? Can you weigh the sugar and cocoa, measure the vanilla, and find how much one heart means to another there? Can you seal a kiss with walnuts? Or with extra fudge? <em>What’s your favorite part? The edge pieces? That’s mine, too! </em>Can you measure a home in baked goods, in flour-coated counters, in lunchboxes and zip-top bags?</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Right then,” Crowley shouts through the dust and the mid-afternoon sunlight of the bookshop, flinging the door open and making the bell jingle. “I’m heading out, don’t wait up.”</p>
<p>“Oh, wait, just a moment dear!” Aziraphale hurries to catch up, a sleek black metal lunchbox in his hands along with—</p>
<p>“Really, angel?”</p>
<p>“It’s a perfectly serviceable thermos. And it’s full of perfectly-normal not-holy tea, just the way you like it, extra sugars.”</p>
<p>“I do <em>not</em> take tea with extra sugars,” Crowley says, taking the thermos and lunchbox anyway. He <em>definitely</em> takes his tea with extra sugars, but he doesn’t have to admit that out loud.</p>
<p>Aziraphale just smiles as he leans out the door and kisses Crowley on the cheek. Easy as anything, simple as a song. “Mind how you go, darling,” Aziraphale whispers against his skin. Sounds a lot like ‘be safe’; a lot like ‘I love you’. </p>
<p>“Yeah, <em>don’t</em> come looking to thwart me,” Crowley protests as he lingers and lets Aziraphale kiss him a few more times. Encouraging sloth and lust, you see. Perfectly demonic activity, getting kissed by an angel.</p>
<p>He reluctantly steps away, pockets of his oversized jacket jingling. He most definitely does <em>not</em> look back and does <em>not</em> think about trading his long-planned day of mischief for a day of snuggling in the backroom.</p>
<p>He’s a demon, demon’s don’t <em>snuggle</em> for Heav-Hell-<em>Somewhere’s sake</em>. Certainly don’t get tempted by angels to snuggle. Besides, he’s got work to do.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He makes his way to Piccadilly Circus for one of his favorite pastimes. The coins in his pocket are jostling and clinking against each other. Twinkling like bells at Christmas time. Giddiness bubbles up under his skin, a smile with too-sharp teeth spreads across his face.</p>
<p>Yes, <em>this</em> is proper demonic activity, no matter what Hastur ever said about it.</p>
<p>He sets up a small perimeter, just outside of an office building. Caution tape and a high-vis jacket and you become invisible. Just another obstacle on their way to work or home or their 3<sup>rd</sup> mistress set to ruin their 4<sup>th</sup> marriage. There’s a lot to be said for camouflage, especially when it works this well. </p>
<p>Left completely to his own devices, Crowley sets to his work. A 1933 George V penny and an Edward VIII brass threepence, among others. Sticking them steadfast to the pavement with some glue and a bit of demonic persuasion. The caution tape is cleared, cones removed, and he settles in to watch the fun unfold.</p>
<p>Just as planned, people trip over themselves to pry the coins off the pavement. They squabble and fight about it. None of them <em>know</em>what they’re worth, at least he hopes not. Almost takes the fun out of it. </p>
<p>It makes him feel better, letting off a bit of steam. Getting the old hi-vis out like it’s the 70s and he’s got some road work to do. It’s not required of him anymore, not by a long shot. But a demon is a demon; and he gets restless without an outlet. </p>
<p>It’s better than the alternative, than mucking with the shop and getting in Aziraphale’s hair. Things are good now, he has everything he’s wanted. Everything he never thought he could have.</p>
<p>Now if he could just let himself <em>enjoy</em> that. Best not to look at that feeling too closely.</p>
<p>Crowley had thought, amongst whispered confessions and apologies between both of them that night in his flat — between the minuscule space between them as they kissed for the first time and between the atoms as their essences mingled and traded places — that Aziraphale would need time to catch up. There were things to work through; millennia of brainwashing by Heaven’s propaganda was not something to overcome easily. Crowley thought they’d go slow. The first kiss had been tentative, the first brush of hands across the table at the Ritz the same. He was ready to settle in and wait. To go at whatever pace Aziraphale needed.</p>
<p>He hadn’t expected that pace to be breakneck.</p>
<p>Things had gone so far in so little time, it left Crowley restless. It was hard to find footing when Aziraphale was dropping ‘darling’ and ‘dearest’ with an almost practiced ease. When the smiles came so easy and kisses, too. When instead of sitting a respectable distance away in his armchair, Aziraphale would sink into the well-worn couch next to him, tuck his feet up under himself and lean onto Crowley’s shoulder. What else could Crowley do but put his arm around the angel? Rude not to, really.</p>
<p>But it made him nervous. Made him fidgety. Only a matter of time before he would mess it up. So he leaned back into his demon-hood. Left once a week or so to make mischief, keep himself scarce so Aziraphale wouldn’t get sick of him. Wouldn’t remember they were hereditary enemies. Wouldn’t suddenly recoil at his kiss or his touch.</p>
<p>Crowley has some very specific fears. Best not to look at those fears too closely.</p>
<p>He’s content to sit with his thoughts until a small boy with a tattered rabbit doll tries to pick up one of the coins. Demons can sense things, just like angels can. He can sense the hunger and worry that covers this boy like a blanket, the worries of his parents. Making ends meet is hard, sometimes there isn’t enough food on the table. </p>
<p>Crowley snaps his fingers and the threepence comes up off the ground. It’s worth more than the boy’s parents make in a year, though they might not think it more than a trinket. But it’s all down to free will, and they might figure out what it’s worth someday.</p>
<p>The kid smiles at him; he glowers in return. The kid just waves before joining his mum. Crowley thinks he must be getting soft in his old age.</p>
<p>He snaps once more and the coins jump from the pavement back into his pocket, their jingling still the soundtrack of his day as he crosses the street to the park. There’ll be a nice bench there, maybe he can feed whatever Aziraphale packed for him to some ducks.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley makes himself as comfortable on the iron park bench as it allows, which isn’t much. He examines the lunchbox. Shiny and black, much more his speed than the thermos. The thermos that’s tartan — <em>Aziraphale’s </em>tartan — which has implications he’s afraid to think about just yet.</p>
<p>He sips some tea from the thermos. It’s perfect in every way, because of course it is.</p>
<p>Inside the lunchbox are some of the usual things you might see: a cheese and pickle sandwich (crusts cut off), a packet of crisps (salt and vinegar), some brownies (edge pieces), and a folded neon post-it note.</p>
<p><em>So that’s where we’re at now? </em>He thinks. <em>Notes in lunchboxes.</em></p>
<p>Feels a bit like a promise. Like a bit of Aziraphale is with him, watching over him. Wishing him well. He opens the note:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>My darling Crowley,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>       I hope that your “fucking shit up”, as you say, is going well today. I packed you your favorites, and I hope you enjoyed the tea. Maybe later we could open that bottle of Taurasi I’ve had sitting in the back for a while, or perhaps watch one of your television programs that you like so much. You know, I do rather enjoy the baking one. I still laugh about that one fellow with the onion and the potato peeler!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>       I do hope you have a lovely day out, and I’ll see you back at home.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                   With all of my love,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                   Aziraphale.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley reads it once. Then twice. Even a third time, one word sticking in his head. <em>Home.</em> Home like a thermos of tea made just like he likes it. Home like a kiss goodbye and a well wish for the day. Home like a well-worn backroom sofa and a hand to hold and a myriad of small and tiny ways that Aziraphale shows him every single day <em>‘you belong here, I love you, I’m never going anywhere</em>’. Home like someone knowing you like the edge pieces of the brownie and giving them to you, even if that’s their favorite part, too.</p>
<p>There’s a stinging at the corners of his eyes, mercifully hidden by the glasses. His body moves of its own accord, standing from the bench and walking towards Soho. Towards Aziraphale and towards <em>home</em>.</p>
<p>After all, at the end of the day, home is wherever his angel is. And in the aftermath of it all, with no sides to separate them, that’s all they really need.</p>
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